


she runs, runs, runs, runs

by thinkatory



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Teenage Drama, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It took Violet Harmon two years to realize she wasn’t dead.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It took two years before she finally saw the mindfuck, and the insane clarity of it all burst into full view. Two years passed before her mother found her lying in a makeshift bed upstairs just before it was too late.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	she runs, runs, runs, runs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aaronlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaronlisa/gifts).



> This was going to be a much twistier fic but I decided to keep it simple, I hope you like it. :D Title from "Creep" by Radiohead.

It took Violet Harmon two years to realize she wasn’t dead.

It took two years before she finally saw the mindfuck, and the insane clarity of it all burst into full view. Two years passed before her mother found her lying in a makeshift bed upstairs just before it was too late.

“Violet,” she said, in her firm but gentle tone. She didn’t move or acknowledge that her mom had spoken at all.

She had forgotten how to sleep, how to live. She pretended to eat, to pick at what she could find near enough to the house, and act as though the afterlife as anything approaching what life once was. She had to act this way, or one day the afterlife would swallow her the way it swallowed Tate. She wasn’t like her parents. She was like Tate, dark and tormented in her own way, whether she liked to admit it or not, and that haunted her -- ha, ha -- enough to make her reconsider him. Was she any better? Wouldn’t she give anything --

No, no, she wouldn’t.

(Would she?)

“Violet, baby,” her mother pressed, insistent.

“Mom,” Violet finally answered, in a mumble, “just leave me alone.”

“You need to go.” She could hear her mother approaching, feel her nearby, kneeling, touching her side. “Tate’s going to kill you, you’ll be stuck here forever, I’m not gonna stand for that, honey.”

“Mom,” she said, flatly. “Guess you forgot. You’re getting as bad as some of the others. I am so dead that even -- “

“No,” her mother interrupted, swiftly, irritated in that soft way of hers, because she was always _so right_. Violet’s mouth went tense, but she stayed quiet. The outline of Vivien’s figure was solid, almost too much so, that intent to be there and present. It was weird. Even the newest ghosts didn’t have to strain with each other. “ _No_. He fooled you. He pulled you apart, Vi. You’re here. You, my sweet Violet, you’re _here_ , alive, let me show you.”

She made no sense. It made more sense to stay still, and not go with this delusion. This was why she had sent her parents away and gone silent almost every time they’d checked in on her so far, this kind of worrying and checking when there was no point, the hopes and dreams that it wasn’t real, when it was and there was nothing to do about it.

_You lost all of us, Mom. We’re all still here -- or most of us, anyway. Give it a rest._

Being dead was better than not existing at all, mostly.

“ _Violet_ ,” Vivien snapped, after she stayed still even after that little speech.

Fine, then. “I can walk through walls and I’m stuck in this freak show like I have a spiritual police tracking cuff on my leg,” she shot back, as sardonically as she could manage. ”Yeah, I must be alive. You’re right.”

“Stop being a brat,” her mom said flatly, “and _come with your fucking mother_. Okay?”

That shut Violet up quickly. She hauled herself up from the floor and followed her mom through the house.

“He’s out,” Vivien said, hushed and cautious. “He finds what he needs, out there, to keep you -- “

She sighed. “ _Mom_ , please, just -- “

“My point is we have to go quickly, Vi. He’ll be back any second now. Your dad’s on lookout, but he may not be able to get to us in time.”

Being harassed, led around like a kid, led on with the promise of secrets they’d kept from her, all this typical bullshit, just pissed Violet off. But whatever. They arrived at the crawlspace, then, and that was it.

“Mom,” she said, sharply, for what felt like the fiftieth time in twenty minutes.

“Come on,” Vivien tried, coaxing, heading towards the crawlspace herself. “It’s not what you think. That’s why you need to see it. Be brave.”

“I don’t care if you think I need to see it, I’m _not going in there_ ,” Violet insisted.

“But you need to see or you’re never going to believe us, about yourself or about him or what he’s been doing,” her mom pressed. “And… you can’t choose him or believe him or forgive him. He feels like he’s winning you over, your father watches him, talks to him, and they fight over you and he gloats that he’s taking you away, that you’re his now, and -- “

“I’m not anybody’s,” she said, instead of answering any of that or thinking too hard about it. It was much easier.

“Listen. Try to listen.” Vivien waited until she relented with her stare and aggressive posture. “We’re fighting for your soul, Violet, fight with us. Fight for yourself -- for us. We’ll go with you. You know we will.”

“But you won’t,” Violet said, abruptly; then, her head exploded and so did her patience. “Even if I could leave, unless I was two fucking blocks away, Mom, you couldn’t do more than ask passersby if they’d seen me on the street, this isn’t Heaven or Hell and you know it! There aren’t guardian angels! Or little fucking Cupids! Just us! Dead people tied to some shitty house!”

“Are you done yet?” Vivien asked rhetorically, a hand on her hip.

“My soul is right here,” she pronounced. “So fuck my soul. Fuck it!” she shouted.

Vivien made a sound of wearied frustration, then jerked Violet forward and she screamed, high-pitched, as they went through the crawlspace. Once stopped, Violet closed her eyes and turned away and thought of something, anything, but --

“I know you’re scared,” her mother said, softly. “But you have to see.”

She pressed her eyes closed even more tightly, until they hurt, and turned to look before she could think twice about it, or think about anything.

“Oh my fuck,” she whispered.

\--

There was her body. But it wasn’t like before. There was no rot, no decay, no terrible stench of death. She was unblemished, untouched, and even visibly breathing (if barely) on a very close look. She hadn't aged a year in all this time -- for the first time, Violet wondered, had two years passed at all? or had it been ten years? or more? it wasn't like she watched the news or read newspapers or talked to living people, anyway -- and oh jesus she was lying in a chalk circle with crazy fucking marks like some satanist shit.

"I'm sorry," Vivien murmured, again.

"It's stupid to be sorry," Violet said darkly, still blank, in shock. "I'm alive like you said and like you wanted and now I can go run or something, right?"

"You're scared, that's why I'm sorry," her mother shot back.

"Of course I'm scared! I don't understand! Nothing makes fucking sense!" She threw her hands up.

"It's a spell." Fucking seriously? Violet could see the thought on her face. "I know you didn't get that one to work, but he kept looking at them, he had a book hidden in the house -- he had one that split you body from soul, and he decided... he -- " The words caught in Vivien's throat. "An illusion. Then he waited until you slept. We found you the next day."

"You knew all this time?" Violet demanded, advancing on her mom in the small space there. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You pushed us away! You ran away, hid from us, you wanted so badly to be alive and -- and we understood that and we hoped you'd find this first -- but -- we can't argue about this," Vivien insisted. "We have to stop him before he hurts you. Keeps you here for good."

"Too late!" She pressed her hands to her temples. "Fuck! I didn't run away! I was here the whole time, Mom!"

"You did," her mom said impatiently, but softened. "And no one blames you. You knew, we could tell, you were hungry, thirsty, you tried to walk in the light and feel the sun. And that's what we want for you, for real, we want you free."

_What if I don't want to be free?_

"Go," Violet said, and pushed her hair from her eyes, looking down at her body. "I'm going to wait for him."

\--

Eventually, her mother did leave, hovering over her for a minute or so before they could hear Tate calling her name. Tate basically looked everywhere for her, from the sound of it, and was a little freaked out by the time he finally found her by the body.

She wasn't feeling too sympathetic.

"This is fucked up," she said sharply, "even for you."

"Vi," he started, startled, gentle.

"Don't 'Vi' me, you incredible ASSHOLE!"

She sprung on him before she even really knew it, the rage taking hold. The element of surprise -- and, probably, his conviction that he actually loved her -- meant that she got to actually kind of beat the shit out of him for a while, or the closest thing she'd ever be able to do.

"Vi!" He wouldn't stop shouting it. "Vi! Stop! Let me explain, for fuck's sake!"

She stopped, briefly, then slammed him against the ground. "Explain," she said, frostily.

Tate looked up at her with that look, the one that made her heart skip beats before everything happened, one where when he looked at her he saw something awe-inspiring like the Sistine Chapel ceiling or that Van Gogh painting of stars. Then he said, with what she once might have believed to be heartbreaking sincerity, "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry my ass," she snarled.

He seized her wrists, she screamed not out of fear but fury, and there was a blur of pain and panic, then he was on top of her, staring into her face.

"No," she shouted at him, like he was a misbehaving dog or something, then the terror struck, the image of him -- with -- " _No_! Fuck you!"

"Violet," Tate said, painstakingly calm. "Vi. _Please_." His voice went soft. She resisted his grasp again, and he pressed her down. She focused on glaring. "You belong with us."

"You're a psycho," she bit off, "and I wish someone would kill you again."

That hit him, harder than any of her blows. That was satisfying to watch. "We're all here," he finally said, a bit dully. "You. Me. Your parents. Our family."

"' _Our family_ '?" she quoted at him. "We're not married, you crazy fuck! Especially not after this shit you pulled!"

"I -- just -- " His head dropped, and she tried to twist away but he kissed her forehead. "I couldn't let you go out there. The world's... too cruel to people like us, and you'd be alone."

"You tricked me into thinking I was dead! You made me stay in this hellhole, and you knew I hated you, but you didn't release me because what, you wanted me to come around and love you again and start fucking you and be an idiot who never wondered about how convenient this was for you?" She'd known she was angry all this time; she had no clue she was this angry. "If you loved me, you fucking asshole, you'd ask me something every once in a while!"

He looked distressed. Poor baby. "How was I supposed to convince you to commit suicide again?"

"Oh my god, Tate." She hated him. She hated him so much, because part of her didn't hate him, part of her could tell where he actually meant this shit, but it was all dressed up in psycho bullshit and it was hell, caring about someone who was like this, it really was, forget flames or being stuck in a shitty dark house. She started to cry, more out of frustration than anything. "Tate -- just -- let me go."

Tate's grip lessened, and his eyes went liquid. "You... want to -- "

"Of course I want to go," Violet snapped, and cried harder, oh, god, she hated him. "You're right. Everyone's here. But I can't. I can't stay here."

"Don't cry," he begged her.

"Fuck you," she shot back, crying harder.

He got up from on top of her, ran his fingers through his hair, and kicked the nearby wall, swearing under his breath. She ignored him, swiped the tears from her cheeks, from her eyes, and willed him to do something as he stared at her enspelled body. He turned back to her.

"Please come back," he said. "For -- for your parents. And maybe for me. If you can forgive me." He looked close to tears himself, if he was even capable of it. What was the term? Crocodile tears? "Don't forget us."

"How can I forget you?" It was an insult and an affirmation, in a way. She couldn't ever forget this, because of all that'd happened, but she wouldn't want to -- not really -- no matter how fucked up and scary it was. "Please. I'll... I'll come back. Just please... give me a chance to do this myself. If you love me."

"You know I do," he said instantly, anguished.

"Then do it," she said, challenging him. She pushed herself to her feet and approached him, put her hands to his face and watched him fucking fall apart at the touch. "Do it."

He was panicking, hysterical. "Okay. Okay. Vi, please, just -- stay with me today? Tonight? Let me -- let me make it up to you. Please?"

"No," Violet said as gently as she could manage. "Do it. Please."

Tate's body jerked in what was almost a dry sob, and he kissed her harshly, and she hated him but she wondered if maybe, maybe there was something there, but it was nothing good even if it was, and she hated everything about this, especially that somehow she didn't hate everything. But, of course, she hated enough. She hated everything enough for everyone. He pushed her forward, gently, away from him, and wandered forward, blankly, towards her body.

There was a long silence, then he knelt down, took out a knife, and scratched edges of the circle out and through the symbols.

It was the weirdest feeling. She felt heavy -- she felt her lungs feel with air and she panicked at the sensation -- she wanted to collapse in fear and pressure -- but she was on the floor. She was weak, cold, somehow tired, and Tate was looking down at her.

"Can you," he started, then turned away, cutting himself off, making a hysterical sound. "'Bye, Vi." He vanished.

Violet blinked at where he'd been. Somehow, she felt even more weight than the new body. She felt more pressure than the blood pumping through the veins and the air in her lungs. She felt to blame.

"Fuck that," she mumbled, and went to find her mom and dad.

\--

Constance had a gun.

Everyone pretty much knew that. A lady like that would have a gun no matter what the fuck was going on, but she'd lived in the Murder House. Of course she had a gun.

It wasn't hard to find it, either. Violet took a close look at it, examined it, made sure she understood it, and only then did she track the bitch down.

"Hello, Violet," Constance said mildly, and smiled like the edge of a knife when Violet emerged on the other side of the doorway. Tate was so much like her -- no, she couldn't think about Tate. She had to focus. "It's been too long."

"Yeah, well," Violet said acidly, "whatever, I don't want to hear your villain-monologue." She pointed the gun at Constance. "Give me my half-brother and all the cash you have or I'll fucking kill you."

"Oh, he's your half-brother now?" Constance asked, plainly mocking.

"He always was," Violet snapped back, and cocked the gun. "And for that you can throw in your credit cards for good measure. _Well?_ Get moving!"

Constance stood, then. "His name is Michael." She turned that condescending smile on Violet again. "Come with me."

As usual when dealing with these people, Violet wanted to puke, but it would only be a few more minutes. It'd only be gathering baby stuff and the money. Then it'd be a bus station, and anywhere but here, anywhere at all but here, anywhere that would take a girl and a baby and not use them like Barbie or Cabbage Patch dolls for their stories and fantasies.

"I'll see you in Hell," she bid farewell to Constance, and they started running.


End file.
